Auditory Logic
by Kristen999
Summary: “Music is the soul of language” Max Heindal . CSI Flashfic Challenge. Prompt Music AN: Kind of a new spin for me. Its short. Hope you enjoy.


Title: "Auditory Logic"  
By: Kristen999  
Spoilers: None  
Summary: "Music is the soul of language"- Max Heindal . CSI Flashfic Challenge. Prompt- Music  
A/N: Kind of a new spin for me. Hope you enjoy.

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Piano man making love to those keys, eyes closed, fingers that dance along those sweet notes. Heads bob, feet tap, the dark filled club mysterious like the glint of his green eyes. They pierce right into your soul, a gaze that make women quiver, brains melt, with the heat they can invoke. 

Wild, native, masculine. Chocolate skin of strong arms, capable of brute strength or the caress of lover's hands. Saxophone belts out tunes, cool bearatones, or trumpets of beep bopin', knee slapin', good times. He's all cool jazz, or heart throbbing blues.

Spice, like sweet, aftershave. Silk designer threads and all the right moves. Daring, the temptation of shuffling blackjack, dangerous like the wild ride of the wrong end of a pair of dice.

Sickly sweet hypnotic tunes, old jazz, new blues. All wrapped in one, all pure Warrick Brown.

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Pushing the envelope, razors along smooth paper, shavings and uneven lines. Trashy fashion sense, with bold colors of a blind man. Double digit decibels, way past the red line. He's unable to standstill, the ripping guitar, and pounding drums keep his body bouncing from one piece of equipment to another.

Spikes of gelled hair, hidden piercings, like screaming lyrics in competition of over fried speakers. Blood drips off the amps, like his sweat drenched chest and neck from trying too hard. The weights he just bought just too much, too aggressive.

Rock on, with his after hour skin tight clothes, mascara and black lipstick. Not Goth, not Glam enough. Sweet charmer, too squeaky clean for hard living lifestyle that's an illusion. IQ, off the charts. Soaring tempos of electronic beeps of the newest fad: death metal clashing with the cellos of symphonies.

Two sides of Greg Sanders, sweeping melody lost in the mosh pit at Marilyn Manson.

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Mediation on strings and soft sweeps of flute along wind. Pillar of strength, and math. Conductor of his grand orchestra, each piece in unison with the magic of his waving hands. Eyes closed. The precision of attuned ears the glue that holds all the soloists in their spot, at risk of it all train wrecking if that precious tone is ever lost.

Every instrument a prized possession even if he doesn't let his fingers touch or allow to feel. Instinctively connected. Who better to mold, cultivate, and let flourish under the maestro's command. He admires at a careful distance, safe on top his little box within the pit.

Brass, wood, materials and complex compositions on sheet music. Old fashioned art, in the modern world. Mood shifts, rich chorus of tides or stirring marches of redemption.

All classic strengths and downfalls of the revered Gil Grissom.

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Thump, Thump Thump. Rapid, club beats, high heels on linoleum floors. Sharp as a whip, dressed to perfection. "Vogue Magazine" the bible of her deadly body.

The dance floor, its infectious groove a calling at night. An escape from too much death, in the past, the reason for other types of lessons. Skills that paid for tuition with hot dollars stuffed between flesh and sweat.

Tough as nails, delicate as the needle reading the plates of acetate. Trance, house, industrial, pure dance, all sensuality. A true dj, reading her crowd and pumping the masses up. Or finding that one lonely soul and lifting up spirits. The magic of her trained eyes and ears increase the oscillation of those around her.

Passion behind the job, remixing the balance of family and dedication. Catherine Willows: the Madonna of the lab, material girl, mom, and all woman.

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Strong steel strumming, of older cowboy tunes. Like the rugged rolling hills of back country, boundless in generosity. A swagger and gait of worn denim, tight cotton and dust covered boots. Pure southern charm drawled in thick, layers of sweet golden honey. Tanned skin, over rawhide .

Slender fingers long to tussle dark hair, grasp the square jaw and perfect lips. Veins pop along from the pulse of a loud booming drum, the beating of his strong heart.

He can trade the twang for proud classic rock of the Marlboro man. Spirit as free as wings of great eagles, adrift in serenity of boundless clouds. Smiles as infectious as natural harmony. Real, genuine, solid as rock.

The favorite feel good tune, always dependable and quintessential as Nick Stokes.

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"Time is up. Keep your eyes closed, as you envision each family member or friend the embodiment of the music of their life. Keep thinking just a few more seconds."

"Good. Now class, remember music is language, it is the spirit in all of us . Clear your head and try focus on yourself now. Now repeat the exercise."

Sara took a deep breath and tried to find the notes within. A smile tugged at her face from the mental images still in her head.

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Fini- 


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